When I was a little kid, my friend Becky Mendoza invented a game to play while we were riding on the school bus. Whenever we saw a Volkswagen we had to point at it and shout "Beaver!" I'm telling you this because now that I'm working again I'm driving to and from work every day and I am astonished at the number of morons I see texting, dialing and talking on the phone while driving. I see them in front of me ... weaving over the line ... CAUSE THEY'RE LOOKING DOWN AND TEXTING. I see them ahead of me, driving very slow and holding up traffic ... cause THEY'RE LOOKING DOWN AND TEXTING. I see them on the freeway when traffic is bumper to bumper and hardly moving ... LOOKING DOWN AND TEXTING. It's so mind-boggling that I find myself pointing at them and thinking in my head ... YOU STUPID BEAVER! ... So be careful people ... cause they're out there.
DON'T TEXT AND DRIVE! The life you save MIGHT BE MINE.
FINALLY!!! And just two weeks ago I was sitting on my patio, crying bitterly and staring blankly into space after receiving yet another "sorry, we hired someone BETTER than you letters" and thinking to myself WTF ... and in the snap of a finger ... bing, bang, boom ... two years of unemployment and no $$$ vanished ... and there we were, Dan and I ... celebrating my new job by having a beautiful dinner and cocktails ... and I looked at my wonderful husband and told him ... DAYUM ... THIS IS WHAT WE USED TO DO ALL THE TIME!!!!! WE'RE THE "REGULAR" PEOPLE AGAIN!!!
I'd tell you all where I'm working ... but then I'd have to kill you. Let's just say I'm grateful. Happy and grateful.
As most of you know I frequently complain about being a pre-menopausal woman. The night sweats, the irritability, the homicidal mania ... however, there is one other pesky little problem that I've yet to mention. Gas. Lots and lots of gas. All I do is fart ... I HATE IT! I just went upstairs and if my butt cheeks separate just a little out comes the putt-putt-putt of a motorboat. When I was a little girl I would do EVERYTHING in my power to hold in a fart. I mean, I couldn't even say "fart" until a few years ago because I hated everything connected to this action. Once when I was little I told my dad how I hated to fart and he told me with deeply serious concern: "you gotta let that stuff go .... IT'S POISON!" I'd rather explode in on myself, thank you. Today, some 40 years later, they come out at will. I have no control over it.
Try getting romantic when you have gas. I once enthusiastically mounted my husband and out of nowhere ... well, you can figure out the rest. Luckily, when you've been married for years and years something like that just makes you laugh hysterically. Had I been a single woman in my 20's it might have been a completely different story and I might not be here to tell it.
My husband doesn't call it by it's proper name. He just tells me to quit backfiring. This is also a real problem when you're in public. The best place to release gas is anywhere with aisles ... supermarkets and bookstores are good. This makes for a quick escape and less possibility of blame. However, if you're in a large room with a lot of people you must maneuver quickly in order to leave the trail far enough behind you so people left in your wake can't blame you. This is is called "blaming a fart on someone else". Not very nice, but necessary.
I've often wondered ... what if you could see your farts? What if colored plumes of air escaped from your posterior enabling all to see who did what and to what degree of pungency.
1. An orange plume would indicate a slight odor - not a serious worry. Chances are by the time you reach the orange plume, the smell will be gone;
2. A Pink plume would indicate a more substantial odor - would maintain a safe distance until pink plume becomes somewhat rosy, or dissipates completely;
3. A purple plume would indicate a truly foul odor - turn around and walk, don't run, quickly, in the other direction. Do not return until you get an ALL CLEAR and it is safe to continue on ...
(See. This is what I do all day long ... think up shit like this ... is it any wonder I'm unemployed.)
I initially posted this last Mother's Day as a tribute to my mother. I would like to wish all the mother's out there a beautiful Mother's Day.
My mother was a compulsive/obsessive list maker whose house was IMMACULATE. People would come into our house and, upon seeing their reflection in the varnished hardwood floors would marvel and always comment ... "My God! Your floors are so shineeeeeee!"
She took great pride in her home. It was spotless and, as my husband once said, if she could have placed a velvet rope from the kitchen to the living room she would have ... because no one was allowed to "live" in the living room.
Being raised in a home that was kept like a museum was not always easy. My bedroom was a little girl's dream ... beautifully decorated and perfectly kept. Everything was in its place, spotlessly clean and picture perfect. I remember how uncomfortable my little girlfriends felt when they came to visit me. If we were in my room sitting on the bed and my mother happened to open the door they would immediately jump up and begin straightening out the bedspread because they knew my mother was really particular about things like that. It always embarrassed me.
My mom lived according to a schedule and was always trying to beat the clock. She rose at 3:30 a.m., YES, you read correctly ... 3:30 a.m., every morning ... to clean. This fact of rising early every morning you would learn within the first 15 minutes of meeting my mother ... because she'd tell you.
Stranger:"Nice to meet you Debbie's mom."
Mom: "I get up at 3:30 every morning" she would state matter of fact.
Always astonished, people would ask WHY do you get up so early? She would respond ... "If I don't do it who else will?" I mean someones gotta get up at 3:30 every morning, right? I used to tell her all the time that she should have been a farmer.
All of our appliances looked brand spanking new. That's because she cleaned them religiously. She buffed and scrubbed, washed and shined, the stove and all it's inner workings. The washer and dryer, same thing. Sparkling clean. Her windows were washed four times a year. ALL OF THEM, inside and out. Gleaming. The walls were washed with a scrub brush and Spic 'n Span. Add to this that my mother was a heavy smoker but our house NEVER, EVER smelled of cigarette. That is because the minute you were done smoking your cigarette the ashtray was immediately picked up, emptied, washed, dried, and placed back in its proper place.
She had very specific ways of cleaning. I once used the wrong broom to sweep the kitchen floor and she yelled at me "NOOOOOOO! Not that broom! That's the one I used to sweep outdoors and then I soak it in bleach!!!!!" She scared the shit outta me! JEEZ, how the hell was I supposed to know that I was using the outdoor broom that got soaked in bleach?! To dust the pleated lampshades she would take a small painter's brush and carefully, methodically sweep each pleat. This same brush was used to dust her little monitos(chochkies or knick-knacks) ... little figurines that you couldn't always clean because they were small and had tiny crevices.
My mother's kitchen cabinets were a beautiful sight. After I'd been married many years and I'd visit her I would love to open the cupboards and run my hands across them and admire, in amazement, their cleanliness. My cabinets are another topic altogether. You'd have to use a small amount of force to pry a glass loose from my gross, sticky cabinets.
Her refrigerator ... SPOTLESS. Never would you find a mayonnaise jar with mayonnaise all gunked up around the rim. EVER.
She had a quick mind. Very smart, though not formally educated, and she was VERY organized. She could have run a corporation easily with her attention to detail and efficiency. She was really amazing that way.
Growing up, I'm certain she hoped that I'd turn out just like her but I didn't. I didn't want to spend my entire life cleaning. I wasn't as organized as she was and I have always been a terrible procrastinator. This is not a good trait to have if you want to run an efficient household. Once, when I was a teenager I sarcastically asked her WHY I had to make my bed if I was only going to mess it up again when I went to bed. Her response? "Why do you wipe your ass if you're only gonna shit again." That was my mom. She could be funny and sarcastic and impossible and thoughtful, and I miss her every single day.
I used to call her from work almost every day and when she answered the phone I would always say ... HI MARMEE! Just like the daughters in "Little Women." She would always laugh when I called her that.
There are so many things I miss about her but what I miss the most is going shopping with her and having lunch after. My sister once remarked that shopping with mom was like shopping with a mouse on crack. She was always in a hurry. For a long while, after she'd passed away and I would see other mothers and daughters shopping I would get a huge lump in my throat because I knew that I would never, EVER, be able to go shopping with my mother again. Death is so heartbreakingly final. I will never, EVER, stop missing her.
I miss you so much mommy. I love you with all my heart and I always will ... till forever and forever ...
It's 4:30 in the afternoon and I am sitting on my patio listening to the water gurgle in the little stream that runs behind my condo (I can do this at 4:30 in the afternoon because I DON'T HAVE A FRIGGIN' JOB) and I just saw the Duck Man walk by. Allow me to elaborate. The Duck Man is a single gentleman of a certain age, probably in his mid 50's, who lives in my complex and every few days, without fail, I see him hurriedly running about with his fishing cap on and the pool skimmer he carries (that thing you use to fish leaves out of a pool) trying in vain to chase away every single duck he can find. He HATES the ducks. Now, if you live in a condominium complex rife with streams, ponds, rocks and trees you will inevitably have to deal with nature's little creatures like ducks and squirrels, you get my drift. He's lived here for 20 years and he has made it his job in life to try to rid this complex of every last duck in existence. How do I know he hates the ducks? I've had the misfortune of running into him when I'm walking my dog and he's told me, at length, how he hates the ducks, they're disgusting and filthy, they leave their poop on all the rocks, he's developing premature asthma, he can't breathe, the dander gets in his lungs and he's sick, sick, sick and on and on and on. He has several personal vendettas against two of my other neighbors because .... GASP ... THEY FEED THE DUCKS! He's actually had the Homeowner's Association fine one of these people $1200 ... for feeding the ducks. Somehow that doesn't seem legal. Even if someone IS feeding the ducks ... and they stopped feeding the ducks ... the ducks would still live here, eat here, mate here, have their babies here. WTF. After engaging this guy once or twice I now do my best to avoid him cause he's a pain in the ass. Truthfully I don't know why he just doesn't move. OH WAIT ... if he moved he'd have nothing to bitch about. Some people aren't happy unless they're miserable.
There's another nutcase who lives here ... I run into her when she's walking her two little Yorkies (Porsche and Bentley ... names her dogs after luxury cars ... whatever) she walks around the complex dressed like a beekeeper. Seriously. Even in summer. She wears this big old hat and then she has this contraption that covers her entire neck so all you see is her face, kinda like a nun in one of those old fashioned habits. She's another one. She's lived here for 20 freaking years and everyone in the complex is out to get her. How do I know this? She told me. She's been accused by someone here in the complex of having an affair with one of the other neighbors. She sued the association because she tripped over a raised piece of concrete and fell down and she'd been asking them to repair it for YEARS. The association is crooked. They're stealing money and doing all sorts of unsavory things. Again, LADY, why don't you freakin' move. What makes these people think I wanna hear their crap? That's what blogging is for!
And another thing ... why is it that when I gotta be somewhere there is always some asshole driving ten miles below the speed limit, right in front of me, GOING EXACTLY WHERE I'M GOING? Today, I witnessed yet another jerk-a-zoid making a three point turn (actually, more like a 12 point turn) trying to park her miserable van in a parking space at Food 4 Less but she drove into the ailse in the wrong direction so she couldn't just pull into the space, she had to do a round about, BACK UP, go forward, BACK UP, go forward, BACK UP ... I swear if I'd had a firearm ... meanwhile she's holding up traffic and pedestrians are like waiting for her to get it together so they could continue walking into the store! UGH. I once heard a standup comic say that sometimes he wished he could kill people for being assholes ... but only for 10 minutes. After being dead for 10 minutes they'd come to and realize ... "Gee, I must've been an asshole" ... AH, A-HUH.